


Reflex

by raja815



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Comment Fic, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Humor, Medical, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Indeed, there will be no problem.  Vulcans lack gag reflexes."</p><p>For a comment fic prompt that wanted McCoy to force a patient to drink something nasty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflex

**Author's Note:**

> If you're emetophobic, I'd give this one a miss.

"Just a GI tract infection, nothing too serious," McCoy says, replacing his scanner and removing his glove to pull Spock's tunic back down over his bared, slightly swollen stomach. "You almost had me worried when you came in. Here I was thinking you'd have to rupture something before you'd come down to visit me of your own free will, and it's nothing but a little tummy ache. Probably picked it up during the Denab mission; I don't even want to think about that Bandi cuisine interacting with your system. You know they use slime devil mucous as a salad dressing there? Ridiculous, good way to catch a—"

"No matter the source of the infection, Doctor," Spock says, unable to abide the chatter any longer. Rising from the examination table to a sitting position at its edge wrenches another cramp from his stomach. Most unpleasant. "I require only that you rectify it, before my discomfort begins to effect my efficiency. Can you do so?"

"Oh sure," McCoy says, wandering leisurely over to his cabinet and beginning to riffle through its stores of remedies. "Now see, normally I'd just give you some electrolytes and a little penicillin derivative to help 'em along, but of course that won't do a thing for you and your crazy Vulcan guts. Fortunately though, I've got some nice enzymes that are so friendly, they're even happy to call on icy green innards like yours. I keep them around for the crewmen with antibiotic allergies. In fact, I can give you your choice."

He reemerges from the cabinet with a set of hyposprays in one hand, and a large bottle in the other.

"Now, these little guys here," he says, illogically personifying the hyposprays as he raises them for Spock to see, "can do the job, but you'll have to spend a fair amount of time with them. Three-day course, four hypos a day. Should start seeing definite improvement by day two."

Spock considers three days of the sharp, cramping pains in his stomach.

"And the second option?" He says, careful to keep his voice calm.

McCoy smirks, and raises the bottle this time. He waggles it back and forth, the contents sloshing back and forth as he does so. "That's my buddy here. Now, she's a quick little worker, she'll have you right as rain by Gamma shift. One time only, down the hatch, and that's all she wrote. Comes with a price though."

"Of course," Spock says, wishing McCoy would speak plainly. The doctor, who had been quite professional throughout the exam, seemed to be making up for his lapse into moderately suitable behavior by speaking even more illogically than usual. "Explain."

"This one's got to be drunk, and rumor has it she's got a pretty nasty flavor. Bad enough to gag on; I've seen it happen. But of course," he smirked again, inclining his head as though bestowing some favor, "I doubt it's a problem for those oh-so-superior Vulcan taste buds."

"Indeed, there will be no problem. Vulcans lack gag reflexes. I will drink it."

"Thought as much." McCoy uncapped the bottle and reached into the cabinet again for a dosage cup. When he began to pour the medicine, measuring the quantity through the graduations marked on the plastic, his female personification of the substance was made at least partially more apparent: the liquid was the pastel pink color once traditionally associated with Earthian femininity. 

"Order up," the doctor says brightly, extending the cup to Spock. "One enzyme cocktail, _la spécialité de la maison._ "

Spock's eyebrows twitch, partially in response to McCoy's botched French pronunciation, partially in response to the cup, which is filled nearly to the brim.

"The dosage is correct?" He asks. The amount is more than what he normally consumes for his entire morning meal.

"She's a big girl all right," McCoy says, chuckling, "but it's dosage by body weight, and you're pretty heavy, no matter how scrawny you look."

"Vulcan gravity—"

"Down the hatch, Spock," McCoy interrupts, putting the cup into Spock's hands.

The flavor is chalky, Spock notes as he begins to sip, but not all _that_ unpleasant. True, it is perhaps a bit bitter as well, and quite thick against the tongue, but nothing so horrible as what the doctor described.

 _The human gustatory cells must be sensitive indeed,_ he muses, swallowing the first large mouthful and pulling in a second and then a third in quick succession.

The fluid descends roughly halfway down his esophagus before the aftertaste finally hits him.

" _Ghhhaargh,_ he wretches, the revolting flavor accosting him as violently as a physical slap. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth gushes saliva, his muscles clench, and, before he can even begin to do anything to fight it, his stomach lurches. The two swallows he has managed and the one still in his mouth are violently expelled, along with the lunch he had attempted before giving in and coming to sickbay, in a pink wash of rancid fluid that splatters the examination table, ruins his clothing, drips from his nose and coats his mouth. This last is, in a way, almost a relief; even the acrid taste of vomit is considerably more preferable that that of the enzymes. 

But the relief lasts only until he opens his eyes.

"...Huh," says McCoy quietly, when Spock has managed to pull in a breath and no longer seems in danger of asphyxiating. "How about that."

"I apologize," Spock says weakly. He is utterly mortified. He wants to look away, but cannot; the evidence of his humiliation is, quite literally, everywhere.

McCoy shrugs. "Happens. I'll get you some hospital scrubs. Guess you'll want to try the hypos?"

Spock nods weakly, looking at the still mostly full cup in his hand. He is waiting for McCoy's laughter, his smirk and his teasing _so, I hear Vulcans don't have gag reflexes, huh?_ , his endless comments on this further evidence of the failures of Spock's peculiar physiology.

They don't come.

Instead, the doctor takes the cup from his hands and helps him exchange his soiled tunic for hospital scrubs without a word beyond a utilitarian "hold your head still; don't want to splash you," as he pulls the garment over Spock's head. As Spock sits, silent and still, he wipes down the table and turns on an exhaust fan. By the time he administers the first of the hyposprays to Spock's arm, the room is clean, even the smell all but gone. 

"You can come back for the next one here in, oh, say three and a half hours," McCoy says, as he's loading the empty hypo chamber into the sterilizer. "See if you can sleep a little in the meantime, maybe drink some water. No food though."

Spock nods, rises, and heads towards the door. He gets close enough that the sensor activates and it swishes open, but he doesn't go through. He stands there, undecided, for a moment, before turning back to McCoy.

"...Thank you, Doctor," Spock says, very quietly. 

The corner of McCoy's mouth twitches.

"No worries," he says, and nods toward the door. "Go rest. Doctor's orders."

Spock turns away quickly, but not so quickly that he misses seeing the twitch widen across McCoy's face into a full, genuine smile.


End file.
